Like Father Like Son
by MissDizzyD
Summary: When Stiles starts coming home injured and withdrawn, there's nothing that the Sheriff can do to help. It's a matter of trust, after all, and that's something that they just don't have anymore.


_I have LITERALLY no idea where this came from. I think it was the love child of sleep deprivation and an argument with my mother..._

_However it happened, I hope you like it!_

_Dizzy xx_

**Like Father Like Son**

"Stiles, what's going on?" His dad asks the very first time he comes home injured, claw marks from Scott across his arm stitched up and bandaged but still smarting. There was a reason Derek didn't let Stiles train with the betas near the full moon, but Stiles was stubborn and Scott would never hurt him, right? Wrong. Because full moons are a rough time for werewolves. A second of lost control and Stiles was on the floor, blood pouring from his arm.

But his dad didn't know that.

"It's ok, dad, I fell when I was running in the woods."

Nothing more is said about it. Stiles is, after all, very clumsy.

...

The second time it wasn't even one of the wolves. That's what annoys Stiles the most – that he can't properly defend himself against _Lydia_, of all people. She'd gotten in just a foot too close and he should've been able to block it except he forgot his Adderall that morning and lost concentration at the key moment.

The blade cut him.

On his shoulder this time, so it would've been easy to cover except his dad still hasn't learnt to knock before entering Stiles' room, even after the Gay Porn Fiasco of 2009.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"I know, Dad."

They stare at each other for a few seconds, Stiles itching to put a shirt on and his father willing his son to open up so he can get the bastard that's hurting him.

Stiles fakes a yawn and shuffles over to the bed, leaving the window open despite it being early March. The Sheriff doesn't mention it though. What's the point? Stiles obviously doesn't trust him enough to talk to him.

...

The third time Stiles comes home bruised and battered, they get angry.

"Who's hurting you, Stiles?" The Sheriff yells, making Stiles flinch involuntarily.

"Dad, seriously, it's not a big deal."

"Someone's giving my only kid a black eye and it's _not a big deal_?!"

"No, it's not. I can handle it. Leave me alone."

Stiles storms away to his room, slamming the door behind him and throwing himself on the bed, loathing the fact he can't keep up with the wolves, can't fight alongside his friends because he's too weak and too _human_.

Breakable. That's what Derek had said. He was too breakable to go and train and fight with them, so he had to stay home and study like a good boy. Except he didn't stay home, he followed them and fought beside them and got hurt.

They were right. He was too breakable to do anything for the pack except hang about at home and research for them, occasionally attend training as long as he sparred with Derek or Isaac because they could control themselves and knew not to push him too far.

He wasn't good enough to be pack, merely a kind of consultant that they went to when they were in over their heads. He'd told them that too – angrily shouted it as he ran from the Hale house, needing to get away from his friends, telling them to stay away from him if he wasn't part of the pack.

Derek still ducks through his window later that night. Still holds onto Stiles like he's a life jacket on a sinking boat. Still kisses him like his life depends on it. Still whispers his name like a prayer as he comes.

He's not pack, but he's good to scratch an itch.

...

The fourth time is when things start to get out of control.

Stiles hobbles into the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, unaware that the Sheriff is still awake working on a case.

The Sheriff doesn't say anything, doesn't even ask, because he knows he won't get answers. Instead, he reaches for the bottle of whiskey as Stiles collapses on the couch, submerged in guilt and pain and silent tears until he falls asleep under the throw.

The Sheriff crashes up the stairs twenty minutes later, drunk out of his head – just enough to forget that he can't protect his own son.

...

Shit hits the fan in a big way.

There's a knock at the door. Stiles isn't home, so the Sheriff drags himself out of bed and down the stairs to open the door.

Derek Hale stands on his porch, covered in blood, an unconscious Stiles curled up in his arms. He lets them in, ignoring the urge to interrogate them both, to hurt the Hale kid, to shake Stiles by the shoulders until he understands that this needs to stop. That the Sheriff can't lose Stiles, he just can't.

Instead, he directs them into the lounge and gets Stiles as comfy as possible when there are four huge gashes across his stomach, no longer bleeding but still a horrific reminder that the Sheriff is powerless. Instead, he lets Derek use the house phone to call Deaton – _"Deaton the vet?" "Yes, we can trust him."_

The vet arrives, sews together the pieces of the Sheriff's son, and leaves again, assuring them that he will return in the morning to check the stitches and give him the right pain meds. But Derek stays – no, he refuses to leave – and sits on the floor next to the couch, clutching Stiles' hand to his lips as tears form in his eyes.

...

"Stiles, we need to talk about this," he says calmly when he walks into the kitchen a week later, only to find Scott changing the bandages on Stiles' midriff. Stiles doesn't meet his eyes but mumbles something that sounds like reluctant agreement, so the Sheriff stays stood in the doorway waiting for Scott to finish his work.

"See you around, Stiles," Scott says as he reaches the back door and walks out.

"Stiles. Tell me who's hurting you." It's a calm request, one that normally throws suspects off the mark and gets them to confess. Stiles is stubborn though, and he also knows all the tricks in the book.

"No one."

"Stiles."

"Dad-"

"Stiles, listen to me," he raises his voice over the protestations, "I don't understand you." He ignores the stricken look on his son's face and ploughs on. "You come home battered and bruised, unconscious from blood loss and being carried by _Derek Hale_. What am I supposed to think? Because it looks a hell of a lot like Derek Hale is responsible for all of this."

"No!" Stiles leaps up from his perch at the breakfast bar and starts pacing around the kitchen like a caged animal. "This isn't Derek's fault. Yes, he has a guilt complex five miles wide, but it's _never_ been his fault."

"I don't know what to think, Stiles. Are you involved with him?" The look on his face is all the answer he needs, the guilt and sheepishness, the flush of red over his cheekbones answers more thoroughly than any words could. "I can't even bring myself to ask because I know you won't answer."

"Dad, I can-"

"Listen. It comes down to trust. You don't trust me enough to tell me the truth anymore."

"Dad-"

"I don't know who you _are_ anymore."

"Dad!"

"And... I don't think I can trust you anymore, Stiles. You've lied to me once too often." He turns on his heel and walks up the stairs with the look on Stiles' face burning in his mind. The agonising guilt. The frustrated tears. Things that the Sheriff just can't deal with. More than ever, he misses his wife now. She would've known what to do; she could've sorted the situation without pushing Stiles even further away, would've hugged them both and told them it was okay, no matter what was happening.

He doesn't know how to cope when Stiles starts sobbing in the kitchen, so he does what he always does when there's an issue: he ignores it until it goes away.

Stiles had to get the trait from somewhere, after all.


End file.
